


No Good Without You

by textsandscones



Series: Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Dancing, Explicit Language, Inspired by Music, M/M, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Violinist Sherlock, just a little bit really, some hopelessly soppy fluff too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textsandscones/pseuds/textsandscones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A diverting new case surrounding musicians and stolen instruments captures Sherlock's attention, the consequences of which lead both detective and doctor to see one another in a different light.</p>
<p>"There is a sudden twist of torso, an arm reclining impossibly far back that skims against the terrycloth of John's dressing gown. Sherlock halts, and turns to stand with both feet placed firmly upon the floorboards beneath him."</p>
<p>Written for ughbenedict's dancing prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Good Without You

“Are you sure, Sherlock?”

The addressed man tucks the flyaway curls of his hair underneath a beanie hat, browline glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and begins to adopt a timid, gangly walk across the room. John glances at his flatmate and raises an eyebrow at the odd man who looks like a bow-legged giraffe.

“Honestly, John. Such little faith,” Sherlock calls through to the kitchen. “It’s obvious. I’ll lure the culprit like a moth to a flame.”

John rolls his eyes. Sherlock had been trailing the case of a thief, recently turned murderer, with a penchant for mugging musicians of their pride and joy: their instruments. That very same morning they had discovered the body of a saxophonist whose throat had been slit and had been unceremoniously dumped in a skip. _Left-handed, slight chapping at the lips, marks around his collarbone where his strap dug in when pulled away from him. Besides the fact that we’ve passed him several times on our cab rides. Only an idiot wouldn’t take notice, John._ Soon enough, after Sherlock and John had sniffed around like bloodhounds for further information; five other buskers came forward, having been robbed in several locations around West London. There is no chance that Sherlock would possibly turn down a case once it had certainly escalated from a four to an eight in interest. Yet John notices that Sherlock appears slightly more erratic than usual while piecing together his disguise.

Heading for the door, violin case in hand, Sherlock waits for John, toe tapping restlessly against the floorboard beneath him until John has settled his Sig Sauer at the small of his back.

“So _that’s_ what that caterwauling was last night? I thought a cat was dying,” John deadpans, regarding the violin with a nod. He grins at how quickly Sherlock turns to glare at him and open his mouth in protest. “Kidding.”

Whilst ambling their way towards Carnaby Street, Sherlock explains his intentions in finer detail, handing John a list of London streets and stations.

“It’s odd that he would target the city. Much more money is made by buskers outside of London, considering the amount of them around,” Sherlock muses, scanning the alleyways and shop windows.

“You’ve had experience busking?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in his direction, the phrase ‘ _obviously_ ’ silently communicated between the two of them.

“I’ve had a license for the last six years, of course I have experience.”

“Of course, a talented egotist like yourself, there’s _no wonder_ you would do such a thing.”

Sherlock’s lips stretch into a strained smile that John notices instantly. He doesn’t pry. Clearly there is more reason behind Sherlock’s busking than mere narcissism. While John knows awfully little about Sherlock’s past before they had met, if the insinuations from Lestrade and Mycroft are anything to go by, he assumes there must have been a time where Sherlock was close to rock bottom with only a few habits to comfort him.

“The other musicians more often than not are targeted towards the evening, when they’re travelling or finishing performances for the day. Two performed at pubs and bars regularly, and were mugged before their scheduled slots.”

“So we lie in wait and try and spot him?”

“You keep watch. Another pair of eyes and ears is always useful. I’ll let you know if I spot him at all.” Sherlock’s brow furrows as John sighs with a smile and pats him on the back for his not-so-well-handled tact. _Eyes and ears, really? That’s all?_

John sits in the window seat of a nearby coffee shop, glancing every so often outside at Sherlock’s crouched figure, violin in hand. As Sherlock stands, he scans across to observe the growing crowds that litter the street and catches John’s gaze with a shared smile. He sets his violin firmly beneath his chin and plays.

A grin lights up John’s face absently as he recognises Paganini’s Caprice 24, the first minute full of passion and energy that reminds him of rooftop chases, dipping and diving out of the way of oncoming traffic. He diverts his eyes towards the rest of the crowd, and after ten minutes it appears Sherlock has gained something of an audience.

What John does not expect is for Sherlock to quickly indulge in the performance, and surprisingly well at that. Drifting smoothly into a slower tune, a song John soon places as Pure Imagination, the genius begins to dance.

Sherlock’s feet step back and forth in a steady tempo, rocking from toe to heel at every other ictus that he plays. His dextrous hand slides along the strings of his instrument, cradling it as though it were a partner, as he waltzes across the pavement. Several onlooking girls, John notices, smile and wink at the musician, and he hears giggles that suggest Sherlock is using his charm in every way to garner attention. _Show-off,_ John laughs silently to himself, and can’t bear to hide his grin when he realises that he is no less enraptured by Sherlock’s performance than those awestruck girls.

John’s attention is drawn to the kick of a heel and ankle, smooth strides and turns along the pathway. They seem effortless when paired with such a look of concentration upon Sherlock’s face directed at his bow and strings. Before he forgets what he should be doing, John pretends to focus upon the morning paper, but cannot help the fact that his eyes shift to the waltzing virtuoso at every turn of a page. A part of him wonders why Sherlock never bothered to divulge the fact that he was an exceptional dancer. Why he never chose to dance when performing partitas and concertos in their flat on an evening. Why he had never composed for _him_ , and yet cares to play the short melancholic tune he once dedicated to Irene Adler. It still riles him. He still doesn’t quite know why.

Towards the end of the segment, John reaches for his wallet, taking out a generous tenner that he flings into Sherlock’s case as he passes. Sherlock’s eyes capture his own for a moment with another curt smile, quicksilver irises brighter and more alert than he had seen them in weeks.

They meet once again in King’s Cross Station, where Sherlock texts John the location of two suspicious looking members of the public after a short interval in his playing, but who he soon passes off as mere pickpockets. John, on the other hand, alerts a passing officer of that fact and mentally curses Sherlock for thinking petty thieving as a crime not to care about.

_Idiot. If it isn’t to do with the case at hand, it doesn’t matter, is that it? - JW_

_Why do you think I told you? Of course you’d have the morality to let the police know. Well done. – SH_

John can’t quite tell whether Sherlock’s text leaves behind a hint of sarcasm, or if it is merely what he always imagines nowadays.

By the end of the rush hour, John and Sherlock meet fleetingly along parks, pavements and platforms, the last of which surprises and thrills John immensely.

His walk along the platform of Angel tube station leads him to stand right in front of Sherlock, coins and a few notes littering the velvet of his violin case. As the buzz of the tannoy and trains die away, John catches the first few notes of a familiar song, the tapping of Sherlock’s heel and toe as accompanying percussion.  The sweet rendition of All of Me compels him to stay and listen for a while longer. Flickers of a time when he had taken Sarah for a weekend break in Paris tease at the back of his mind, the sight and smell of patisseries and fresh summer air making his grin widen even further. Why was Sherlock doing this? Did he know it reminded him of past relationships? Was he intentionally playing this song to get to him?

Opening his eyes, John can’t help but watch the sway Sherlock’s hips and legs swathed in threadbare jeans. He hears a deep laugh resonate in the man’s throat. John avoids looking directly at the bespectacled man’s face, and his eyes and ears focus immediately on the slow slide of long fingers along violin strings.

John looks up and apologises as he is bumped and shoved by hurrying commuters. Turning back to see Sherlock smiling and thanking a passerby with a bow of his head, he blends in and hurries up to seek fresh evening air above.

_Damn the bastard. What on earth was that about?_ John pinches the bridge of his nose, sorely tempted to leave Sherlock to this case and head back home. He hadn’t expected that at all. The charm. The intentional dancing and swaying. _Dear god_. Glancing at his watch, he gathers that he could spare twenty minutes until their next meeting place, walking through a nearby park and checking his phone for either call or text from Lestrade.

John lurches forward. A blow to the back of the head forces him to crouch and shake the stars from his eyes. A heavy hand grasps at the scruff of his neck and drags him back up. He elbows his assailant, throws himself back and uses the sudden release to turn the tables in his favour. He twists around, gripping the man’s arm and forcing it desperately close to dislocating. Kicking at his calves, the man tries to jerk back until he stumbles to his knees. _Late twenties, shorn blond hair, tall, broad-shouldered. A silver ring, slightly bloodied around the patterning, on his left hand._ Only then does John feel the pain of a cut above his left ear.

“Tell me what you’re planning. Don’t think I won’t break your fucking arm if you fight back,” John warns, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He fumbles for the phone in his pocket, texting Lestrade his whereabouts.

“We know what you’re trying to do. Sherlock Holmes, he-”

A short beep echoes loudly from the phone in John’s hand. Both men pause in their struggling. _Sherlock._

_Nh Square. Quick. – SH_

_Nh? Northampton Square_. John is torn. The thought of Sherlock in trouble running through his mind is not rare in the slightest, but knowing two people had been trailing them just now deepened his worry.

“Thirty seconds. I have a gun and I am perfectly capable of using it if you move _at all_ in that time. Are we clear?”

The man beneath him lets out a huffing laugh and spits on the ground, before sighing with a nod.

John flees as soon as he can, running barely three streets away when he finds two slumped silhouettes against an alleyway bordering the park.

“Sherlock!”

Both bodies lie on their backs, one unmistakably wearing glasses with inky black hair spilling out of his hat onto the concrete. The white strings of his broken violin bow lay wrapped around Sherlock’s neck on closer inspection, the remnants wood snapped in two nearby. John’s hand feels for the faint pulse on his neck, removing the pale horsehair carefully as he goes.

“Sherlock, jesus... oh god, no-“

John’s hope clings onto the small beat by his Adam’s apple and quickly peers around the area for any reappearance of the blond man who attacked him earlier. He focuses back on the medical analysis at hand. Purplish lines soon fading around his throat. A scrape along his jaw. A faint trickle of warm breath leaves Sherlock’s mouth, soon followed by a sudden hacking cough as he hunches over onto his side and tries to control the pressure in his lungs. His hand waves at the other man’s unconscious state, a handcuff snapped around one of his wrists.

John glances over to the upturned violin case by his right, the violin sticking out of it still in fine condition, if just a little worse for wear.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock,” John mutters in half-relief, half-irritation, rifling in his jacket pocket for his phone once more. “I’ll get Lestrade.”

 

* * *

John jolts awake in the wee hours of the next morning, uncomfortable, tense and with sweat perspiring at the back of his neck. He sighs, his throat thick and cheeks damp. The image of a pale broken neck and bloodied, vacant-eyed face are blinked away as he sits back and listens to the odd creaks and thumps from the room below. Sherlock's room. An odd tune trickles up the stairs to meet John's ears. He frowns and listens closer; light piano, soft drums - not Sherlock's typical performance.

Abandoning all hope at trying to return to sleep, he tiptoes down and hesitates outside Sherlock's 'sanctum sanctorum'. Soon enough, letting his curiosity and frustration get the better of him, he peers around the doorframe.

"Sherlock... seriously, I have work tomorr-" he quietens at the sight of Sherlock, wearing naught but his loose, rumpled t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and dancing as if trapped in his own world.

This is nothing like the show he put on out there in the loud, crowded city for everyone to see. His arms stretch, claw and pause in the air, in perfect tandem with each lunge and lean of his pyjama-clad thighs. His back limber, his long neck exposed to the cool morning chill trickling through the window. Only now does John grin wide at the contradiction of this man before him; this man considered his body ‘transport’, a mere vessel, when it was one of the most fascinating parts of him.

John remembers the cosy evenings when Sherlock was beyond the point of shooting walls and blowing up kitchen appliances, and simply needed his violin at his disposal. He suppresses a sigh at the way the tips of Sherlock’s fingers pluck at the air, rearranging at times to hover as though holding his bow and then releasing his grasp. His feet kick, his toes point, his back bends at such a dizzying speed that John wishes he could simply hold him still, calm him, soothe him.

There is a sudden twist of torso, an arm reclining impossibly far back that skims against the terrycloth of John's dressing gown. Sherlock halts, and turns to stand with both feet placed firmly upon the floorboards beneath him.

Quicksilver eyes fly open and glance up in fleeting surprise, before lowering once more. Too intimate, obviously private, an invasion on his flatmate caught unawares. John attempts to hide another small smile behind his fingertips as he rubs his cheek, Sherlock’s flustered surprise seeming oddly endearing to him.

_"John,"_ Sherlock pants, cheeks flushed and lips parted as his gaze flickers over John in its usual deductive manner.

"I, shall I just..."

A hand reaches out for John's wrist as he turns towards the door. His palm slowly slips into place against Sherlock's own pale hand, the tips of his fingers curling over his friend's. The skin against his feels tender: bruising to the metacarpal of Sherlock's thumb, small grazes from concrete along his palm. There's little wonder as to why Sherlock appears even more restless. No chance at all to find comfort in his violin tonight.

Sherlock pouts at John's prodding with a hint of affection noticeable in the tilt of his lip. His fingers clench when John pats his other hand across Sherlock's slightly swollen knuckles.

"There is such a thing as privacy, John. Perhaps you should take note of it," Sherlock drawls, not particularly annoyed by John's keen bedside manner. He finds it rather wonderful in fact, eager to be observed by John as  _he_  has so often observed him, in their own methodical ways.

"Sherlock, as if now would be the time you use your own ignorance of common decency against me. What if Mrs Hudson complains about the noise?"

A deep huff of breath becomes a chuckle as Sherlock guides John across the threshold to his room. The final drums fade as the song changes, quieter, solely a duet between soft piano and slow violin that fills the room.

" _Noise_. This is not _noise_ , this is _music_. And she wouldn't complain. This is a favourite of hers," he explains away with a wave of his hand and a smirk, before sighing, "I couldn't concentrate."

"And I couldn't sleep," John mutters in a slumber-soft voice, avoiding Sherlock's speculative gaze. With any luck Sherlock already knew of the reason he still failed to sleep well after all these months. "So, maybe this could be mutually beneficial?"

John curses himself mentally at the suggestive offer. He grasps Sherlock's other hand firmly and stares at their bare feet against the cool floorboards, more to save him the embarrassment of what Sherlock would possibly have made of his words, rather than concentrating on where Sherlock's heels and toes are planning to lead him.

The dwindling lilac of dawn glimpses through the window, but John is past caring that it's half four in the morning and a double shift at the clinic is mere hours away. Before he’s aware, his hips follow the direction of the man holding his hands, one that soon sidles along to cradle the small of his back. Back and forth, back and forth, a tempo in time with the slow breaths and chords that fill the short distance between them.

"So, you said you couldn't concentrate? We caught Daniel Hardy and recovered the instruments in his possession. I don’t see-“

"Of course you don't-" Sherlock bites, before sighing deeply and raising the smile that John knew far too well to be instantly understood as _‘bit not good?’_

Sherlock's palm presses against John's as he moves backwards, his features thrown into soft sunlight that diffuses through the windows. The marks along his neck and jaw are almost invisible, but the thought of Sherlock in a broken state like that still lingers in his mind. John's feet follow, bare toes brushing against Sherlock's for an instant.

"The work. It turns to screeches and strains and a maelstrom of possibilities that are just out of my reach. This case is more complex than I first anticipated, and only recently, I've realised he wasn't working alone. Stupid. _Stupid!_ It’s obvious, how could I miss-” Sherlock rambles incessantly as his pace quickens with the song’s crescendo, until his feet stumble into John's and hesitate again. John can’t help but smile at how Sherlock’s toes turn inwardly, as if shy.

“Slow down, Sherlock. Luckily, I’m not a complete berk. I found the other man. Well, he found me,” John sighs, and gives Sherlock a curt roll of the eyes that simply read as ‘ _long story’_. “I gave a pretty good statement while you were being patched up.”

Sherlock's eyes lock on his once more when they both glance up, soft huffs of tired, half-hearted laughter filling the air between them. _No sleep for days, little food,_   _if any_ , John notices from the purpling under his friend's eyes and the slight flush of his cheeks. Even the marvel that was Sherlock Holmes had bad days, a fact of which John was very much aware.

"Your mugger was an arse-brained prat, you saw that for yourself. If he doesn't end up revealing names of any other accomplices, you can always swan in again and find out," John assures him, and presses a firm hand to Sherlock's back to aid his movement. However, Sherlock stands stiff and uncooperative.

"I may not say this often enough. Your presence... it matters. A great deal," Sherlock tenses his jaw visibly and takes a shallow breath before looking at John, fascinated by how easily he could fall into the rhythm John sets for them. There is so much Sherlock wants to say but can’t. He won’t voice what he doesn’t even understand of himself yet. How he treasures the individual callouses of a doctor’s hands that gently grasp at him in relief, in warning, in worry. How this soldier can hold life and death, safety and danger, in such a volatile body swathed in soft sweaters. How this man before him thrills him more and more than a needle in an arm, a gunshot in a wall, or an answer to a case had ever achieved. How he needs him.

“I’m sorry I-” John’s regret catches up with him soon enough as he heaves a deep breath. “I should have been there and kept watch. I didn’t-”

Sherlock shushes him, pressing the tips of two fingers to John’s mouth for a mere second and bestowing a forgiving smile. His eyes hover over the small cut just behind John’s ear, his hand soon following to trace it.

John nods, and wonders at the hesitance that he’s getting from this man he so often assumed was above pandering to sentiment. That Sherlock is so serious and mutters these words with such sincerity speaks volumes to him. Running his tongue over his bottom lip, John nudges closer to Sherlock and allows the taller man to guide his feet further from the space of the doorway.

“You still came. You still persisted in helping me,” Sherlock sighs, as his hand slides around to smooth the short, still damp hairs at the nape of John's neck. He rests his forehead against John’s. His eyes are squeezed tight as if he daren't look at the man in front of him, as if he is unsure of what to do next. But once the words reach his lips, he knows them to be true.

"You're crucial," he mutters by John's ear, his fingers trailing to John's left shoulder and familiarising himself with the ridges and whorls of the scar hidden beneath his shirt. "Not only today. Not only to the work. To me. You are the one thing I can count on. The one fixed point in a changing age.”

The violins cease gradually, a simple piano chord petering out until they stand in silence.

John realises he's invaded much of Sherlock's space, their chests brushing, Sherlock's knee trailing along the inside of his thigh. He doesn't care to move. Cares too much, in fact. He's known it for so long, in the back of his mind, and is not in the least surprised at his actions when he turns his cheek to lie against that of his dearest friend.

"The feeling is entirely mutual," John breathes against Sherlock’s ear, and smiles at the tender push of warm, wet lips against his own.

A fellow grin presses back, until they capture one another’s mouths in gasps, a tempo, a timbre that flows seamlessly between the two of them. The tip of a tongue trails by Sherlock’s bottom lip, gaining entrance with ease, until they stop.

Sherlock’s back presses against the wall, sliding down as John’s hands tangle and clutch at the dark curls of hair. Irrepressible grins plaster one another’s faces, the fingers of Sherlock’s hand dancing along his jawline to become familiar with each dip and dimple of John’s cheek.

Warmth envelops John as he places a kiss against Sherlock’s palm and once more at the lingering smile on his lips. A moan escapes him as Sherlock teases and pulls at the soft terrycloth of his dressing gown at his shoulders. The other man’s voice hums against his jawline as the robe is tugged from his wrists.

It takes little more than a moment for John to pause at the tune that reverberates from the soft cupid’s bow and full bottom lip. His mind soon conjures familiar lyrics. _Can’t you see I’m no good without you?_ A breath catches at the back of his throat and Sherlock’s eyes glance up in an instant. Worry? Timidity? No. Eagerness to be understood.

John pulls Sherlock away from where he had been plastered against the wall, his hair even more unruly than before. Hips, toes and eyes meet as they wander in a different direction, a welcoming, untouched bed. John whispers softly against Sherlock’s collarbone.

“Are you sure, Sherlock?”

As the sun soon rises slowly over the rooftops of Baker Street, a soft peachy glow of light lies upon the floorboards of the bedroom in 221B, forgotten, amidst bedclothes and a terrycloth dressing gown.

“Need you ask?”

**Author's Note:**

> Would like to thank ughbenedict very sincerely for providing such an amazing prompt that caught my attention, mostly inspiring the second part of this fic. My mind ran away with itself and it seems to have turned into a little bit of a case fic too.
> 
> Had plenty of Tom Odell, Frank Sinatra and classical violin pieces to occupy my ears while writing this. It was a joy to write.
> 
> This is the first fic I've written on AO3 (and at all in about 3 or 4 years!) so constructive comments would be much appreciated too!


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